


A Story of Love, and Birthday Pie, and...Love

by BeckySinger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Bottom Dean, Bunker Fluff, Castiel/Dean Winchester in the Bunker, Dean's Birthday, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mark of Cain, Men of Letters Bunker, Mild Sexual Content, Nightmare Imagery, Nightmares, Pie, Post-Coital Cuddling, References to Cain/Colette, Shipper!Sam, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:11:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3227003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeckySinger/pseuds/BeckySinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A totally self-indulgent piece of bunker fic I started writing for Dean's birthday, set between 10x10 "The Hunter Games" and 10x11 "There's No Place Like Home".</p><p>Though it begins with a Mark of Cain induced nightmare, it gets better. There are burgers, beer, pie, birthday wishes, and Destiel with a small side of shipper!Sam and a fluffy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Story of Love, and Birthday Pie, and...Love

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** This is probably not the best, most cohesive thing I've ever written, but when plot bunnies arrive and refuse to leave, what can you do? I'm posting before I can obsess and change my mind, therefore wasting effort.

Dean is awash in blood and slashed and broken bodies, an entire barn full. The Mark of Cain burns, and the First Blade vibrates in his hand. He tastes ash and sulfur, sees everything painted in red and shades of grey and black, and all he wants is more...More blood, more destruction. Or, rather, the Mark and the Blade do. He's just along for the ride, the human part of him--or what's left--screaming. He rises from his knees, soaked with the still-warm blood of the fresh kill underneath him, a teenage boy with green eyes and freckles so much like his own at that age. He doesn't know why these people were here or when they came or where they came from and he doesn't care. He doesn't care that there's no one left alive and in one piece. What he cares about is finding someone else to sink the Blade into, to satisfy the Mark. It has to be fed. He heads toward the doors.

"Dean..." He hears Cas's voice. His lips pull back in a smile, and the Mark burns hotter, glowing brighter. The Mark and the Blade like the idea of ripping into an angel. "Dean, wake up. It's only a dream."  
  
He cocks his head, confused. He sees no one, but feels hands cup his face. He slashes at them with the Blade, but they don't go away. The burning of the Mark subsides, and color bleeds back into the scene, faded brown wood and golden hay and everywhere the sprays of red. The air feels cool, as though a breeze is blowing through the door, and blue light shines in, nearly blinding. It's beautiful. He steps forward, then feels like he's falling.  
  
Dean wakes with a start, jerking away from Castiel's hands. He's sweating, but cold as ice despite having fallen asleep in yesterday's clothes, including his flannel shirt and jacket.  His heart beats fast and hard in his chest. The Mark itches, and he scratches at it as he takes a breath. "Cas?"   
  
Cas is sitting calmly on the side of the bed, his bed in his room in the bunker, facing him. "You were having a nightmare," he says softly. "It was difficult to wake you. It was the Mark, wasn't it?"  
  
Dean leans against the headboard and sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and staring down at the blanket. "Yeah. I, uh...I was in a barn full of..." He swallows. He can't get the words out around the lump in his throat, and fights the wave of nausea rising behind it.   
  
"I know." Cas takes one of his hands between his own, rubbing circles with his thumbs. "I saw."  
  
"Reading my mind, Cas?" There's no anger or venom in the question, just vulnerability and fear, first of what all Cas may have seen in his dreams before, but also, and most importantly at the present moment, that Cas will be disturbed enough to leave...For good this time.  
  
"I wasn't trying to, but when I touched you..." Cas lets go of his hand and cups the side of his face. Dean closes his eyes and leans into it. "You were so scared...The part of you not controlled by the Mark, that is."  
  
"Were you watching me sleep?" he asks, looking up enough to see Cas.   
  
A smile tugs at the corner of Cas's mouth, just a split second and it's gone. "No, not this time. I...I sensed your distress."  
  
Dean is taken aback. "You  _sensed_ my distress? You can do that? How am I just finding this out?"  
  
"I thought it would make you uncomfortable, and then I was human and it didn't matter, and then we were both busy with other, bigger things..." Cas trails off, then locks eyes with Dean. "How do you think I've always found my way back to you? As an angel, I could--can--sense my charges' distress and longing."  
  
Dean sits stunned, unable to look away but unable to form words, wondering if that means what he thinks it does.  
  
"I shouldn't have told you." Cas looks away again.  
  
"No, Cas...It's okay. I'm not mad." He wonders what Cas felt when he thought he was Emanuel, back before Dean knew he was alive, when he was grieving, moving that damned trench coat from the trunk of one car to another. Or when they were in Purgatory, or this past year after Cas angeled up again but they mostly led separate lives.   
  
They sit in awkward silence for a moment before Cas speaks again. "Sam was going to wake you soon anyway. Today is your birthday, and he said that he's almost finished preparing your birthday dinner."  
  
"You let Sam in my kitchen? Unattended? Ah, man! I just cleaned in there! And he'd better not have ruined any of the cookware. You can't find cookware made like that anymore," he babbles, escaping from the bed and the awkwardness and things left unsaid, taking off toward the kitchen.

When he barrels through the door, Sam jumps and sprays Reddi-Wip across the kitchen island. "Jesus!"  
  
"Not him," Dean deadpans, looking around to survey the damage. Other than dirty dishes, a few bits of lettuce and what appear to be crumbs and sesame seeds in the floor, and the spray of Reddi-Wip that Sam is already cleaning up, there doesn't seem to be any. It's better than he thought. Nothing smells burned, and none of the cookware appears charred.  
  
He hears footsteps approaching behind him as Sam says, "Cas! You weren't supposed to wake him up yet!"  
  
"He was having a nightmare," Cas says from just behind him. "He was distressed."  
  
Dean rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything. Sam's face takes on a worried expression. "Like, what kind of nightmare?"  
  
Before Cas can answer, Dean interrupts. "What does it matter? Do you really expect me to have anything _but_ nightmares at this point? Any of us, for that matter? And why did you two let me sleep until dinner? I'm starving!"  
  
Sam purses his lips, then replies, "We thought we'd let you take it easy since you haven't been sleeping, and to see if you would sleep. If memory serves, sleep was one of the first things to go after you got the Mark. Plus, it's your birthday."  He shoves a pie forward on which he had written "Happy birthday, D" in whipped cream. He hastily finishes spelling out Dean's name and adds an exclamation point.  
  
Dean sniffs in the general direction of the pie. It's apple.  He hasn't been very hungry lately, preoccupied with other things and undoubtedly affected by the Mark, but what he said is true. He is hungry now, and for the pie, his mouth absolutely waters. "Since when do we celebrate birthdays?"  
  
"Since we're not hunting until we find something out about removing the Mark, something concrete," Sam replies. "It seems like the more you kill, the worse it gets."  
  
Dean frowns. "Crowley says the Mark has to be fed, and hunting is the best way to do that, unless you want me to go apeshit and kill some random person, or people, possibly you."  
  
"And you're going to listen to Crowley?" Sam asks, shooting him the patented Sam Winchester bitchface.   
  
Dean opens his mouth, but Cas interrupts before he can say anything. "Actually, he may be right in this case. I believe the Mark was using Dean's nightmare to push him toward violence. If it had been you to awaken him you could have been injured. He struck out at me before he was fully awake, and I saw the nightmare, felt what he felt. It was..."  
  
"Okay, that's enough dream analysis, Doctors Jung and Freud," Dean says testily. "Let's eat. What else did you make besides the pie, Sammy?"  
  
Sam purses his lips and glares, a sign that the subject is only delayed, not dropped, but answers. "Bacon double cheeseburgers with lettuce, tomato, dill pickles and mayo, and fries. You can add onion if you want, but I'm not chopping them."  He points at the end of the island, where there are three plates set out and an unpeeled, uncut onion and a bottle of ketchup beside them.  
  
He feels Cas's hand rub up and down his back and turns his head sharply, wondering when Cas came to stand almost beside him, and hopes Sam didn't notice. The corner of Cas's lips quirk up, and there's a hungry look in Cas's eyes that makes Dean think of better days and things that happened when Sam wasn't around, most recently in a hotel room on a certain trip to Idaho he tries not to think too much about. He decides to forego the onions, just in case he's reading the signals right, not that Cas would necessarily care.  
  
"Nah, Sammy. I can do without them. And, for future reference, it helps to light a candle in your mise en place before you start chopping them," he says.  
  
"Mise in whats?" Sam asks, cocking his head like a curious puppy.  
  
"Your work area. And here I thought you knew what you were doing in here. How'd you pull it off, anyway? Last I knew you were total crap in the kitchen with anything other than salads or cold sandwiches." He walks over and picks up a plate and the ketchup, heading to the kitchen table. Cas follows, taking the seat beside Dean and bumping their knees together as he settles.  
  
"Well, I've been watching cooking videos online to learn basic technique. The hamburger patties are pre-made ones from the store, the buns are the regular sesame seed ones, not the fancy ones you use--couldn't find those--the fries are courtesy of Ore-Ida, and the pie is one of Marie Callender's frozen ones which had explicit baking instructions on the box. Don't get too excited," Sam explains, huffing out a laugh as he sets three beers on the table before bringing his own plate over, settling across from Dean.  
  
Dean chuckles. "Okay. As long as nothing's burned and there's pie, I'm calling this a win, and probably one of my better birthdays since before...Well, you know, since Mom..." Dean clears his throat. "Thanks, Sammy."  
  
"You're welcome," Sam replies, smiling softly.  
  
"And thanks for waking me up, Cas." He shoots Cas a sideways glace, catching him biting into his burger already.  
  
"You're welcome," Cas says around the food.  He chews and swallows, then smiles. "These still make me very happy."  
  
Dean laughs and catches Sam's amused smile out of the corner of his eye. "Of course they do. They make everybody happy."  He picks up his own burger and takes a bite. It's actually pretty good, not on par with his own (the big secret to his burgers is the addition of a bit of finely minced onion, a sprinkling of garlic powder, and a splash of Worcestershire sauce), but better than a lot of the ones they've eaten on the road.  
  
After cleaning their plates, mostly in comfortable silence since their mouths were otherwise occupied, it's time for pie. Sam clears their plates, setting them atop the growing pile in the sink, snags a pint of Vanilla Bean Hagen Dazs from the freezer, and temporarily blocks Dean's view of the pie. "Hey, Cas, could you come grab these forks and plates?" he asks over his shoulder.  
  
"Of course." Cas gets up and retrieves the dessert plates and forks set out in a pile near the pie and brings them back to the table.    
  
When Sam turns around, he's stuck two number candles in the top of the pie, and lit them.  He's 36. He never thought he'd live to see this many birthdays, and if they don't find a way to get rid of the Mark, he may not see another. He thinks this is probably what's really behind this birthday dinner. He shakes off these melancholy thoughts when Sam sets the pie in front of him and smiles as his brother and best friend start singing, off-key and not exactly in sync.  
  
"Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Dean. Happy birthday to you!"  
  
"I am told you are supposed to make a wish before you blow out the candles," Cas says, leaning in, like he's imparting some special secret.  
  
Dean smiles at him, then closes his eyes and blows. He wishes there was a way out of their respective messes, his with the Mark and Cas's with his stolen Grace and Sam's always getting dragged along for the ride, preferably ways out that don't involve dying or being zapped into an alternate dimension or different plane of existence. He doubts it will happen, but he hopes.  
  
Sam takes the candles out and hands Dean a pie server. Dean cuts three generous slices and plates them, then grabs the ice cream and puts a scoop on top amid the bits of whipped cream letters. He hasn't had apple pie in so long that the involuntary hum of appreciation that slips out with his first bite almost strays into pornographic territory. Sam smiles. Cas takes a bite, frowns, and shoves the ice cream off onto the plate.

When Dean turns to ask what's up with that, he says, "Ice cream is very cold and tastes like molecules, but the pie is pleasant. I see why you like it so much."  
  
Dean grins at that, and resists the urge to kiss the little bit of whipped cream stuck near the corner of Cas's mouth, instead accidentally locking eyes with Cas, very aware that his brother is watching them stare at each other like they always end up doing. He breaks the contact first, gobbling up his slice of pie and cutting himself another.  
  
Once the two humans are sufficiently stuffed, and Sam has teased Dean about being closer to 40 now than 30, Sam gets up from the table, taking their dessert plates and empty beer bottles.  He puts the bottles in the trash and the dishes in the sink, then turns to the other two. "Since it's your birthday, Dean, and I know how picky you are about the kitchen, I'm going to clean up. Consider it your present. And, yes, I know where everything is and where it goes and that it has to be spotless. While I'm doing that, why don't you go introduce Cas to _Game of Thrones_ or that _Star Trek: The Original Series_ Box Set Charlie left when she went to Oz?"  
  
"I would like that. Metatron implanted all the verbal knowledge of what happens in both, but I have no visuals to go with it," Cas says, and he looks so earnest and interested Dean can't do anything other than agree.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"And since this is going to take so long, you may as well take the laptop and set it up to play in your room, at least for the first episode or two," Sam pipes up. Dean turns his head to glare, but Sam's face is stone cold serious and innocent, maybe a little _too_ innocent, but could he really complain without making things more obvious?  
  
"Okay."  
  
Then Sam's facade cracks and his face splits into a grin. "Or, you know, you could tell Cas all about that play we saw..."  
  
Dean did glare at that. He also felt his face heat and knew he was blushing. "Sam," he said, using the same warning tone he'd used since Sam was a toddler, " _Shut your face._ "  
  
"The play based on Chuck Shurley's Winchester Gospels?" Cas asks.   
  
Dean sighs and rolls his eyes before shooting a still-grinning Sam one last murderous look. " Yeah."  
  
"Sam told me a little, but none of the details. I think it was because he couldn't stop laughing. Was it a comedic version?" Cas asked, stone cold serious and interested as usual.  
  
"It was a really messed up fan fiction version. There were robots, and outer space. It wasn't all bad, or untrue, but it wasn't exactly accurate, either," he explained.  
  
"It was about some things..." he heard Sam mutter quietly as he ran water in the sink, probably thinking he wouldn't hear.  
  
"I heard that, and that will be all the commentary we'll need from the peanut gallery on the subject!" he exclaimed, even as "I'll Just Wait Here Then" popped into his head. "Come on, Cas." He got up and started out of the room, but turned back just as Cas slipped through the door, nearly colliding with him. "And this place had better sparkle when I come in here to make breakfast tomorrow morning!"  
  
That earned Dean another bitchface. "I told you it will be spotless. Why don't you go enjoy your birthday instead of worrying over the kitchen, Donna Reed? There's not _that much_ of a mess. Besides," he said, amusement replacing the irritation, "It's not like you'll actually be up for breakfast tomorrow."  
  
"Sammy..."  
  
Sam holds up his hands, placating, but still amused. "You know you can't just watch a few episodes of those TV shows. Plus you slept all day. You'll probably be up most of the night."   
  
Dean decides to let it drop. He and Cas retrieve the laptop from the library and both box sets from Sam's room, since Dean hadn't been interested lately, before heading to his own. Cas drops onto what Dean has come to consider--in a small part of his mind that he doesn't want to admit exists--his side of the bed, placing one of the pillows behind him and leaning against the headboard, legs outstretched on top of the blanket. (Dean had fallen asleep on top of the covers last night.) The first time he had returned to the bunker after receiving the Mark, he had found his pillow moved to one side of the bed and the sheets and blanket rumpled on one side, and a book he had never seen before propped on what served as a nightstand. He knew Sam wouldn't invade his room, and no one else had been in the bunker besides Sam and Cas in his absence. He had flopped down on the other side and pulled the pillow to his face, finding it smelled like Cas. He hadn't washed the sheets until Cas's scent faded. Afterward, he added another pillow to the bed, just in case. He thinks about all of this now, actually seeing Cas sitting there, and his heart skips a beat and his cheeks heat.   
  
Dean sits down on the bed with the laptop and grabs the DVDs from the middle of the bed where Cas set them, holding them up side by side. "So, which do you want to start with?"

  
"I have no preference," he replies. "Which do you like best?"  
  
They end up watching the first ever episode of _Star Trek,_ partly because Dean liked it first, and partly because  _Game of Thrones_ can be really violent and bloody and he doesn't want to be reminded of the nightmares or what he's done. The TV censors in the 1960's didn't allow that much blood onscreen. It only holds his attention for a few minutes.  
  
He tries to get into it, but he just can't. He's starting to spiral into worry.  He wonders if Cas used his Grace to wake him this morning, and if using it makes it deteriorate faster. He worries about himself and the Mark. It has to be fed.  Not feeding it could kill him, and then he'd be a demon again. He doesn't want to continually put Sam and Cas through the ordeal of curing him. He also thinks of Cain, how he was able to find control and retire from demonhood.  He hasn't told Sam or Cas that story, but he knows that what Sam said, about part of the control being him, was true, but also having something-- _someone_ , he amends--to hang onto, even if they're a memory. Maybe he should. Maybe he should lay all the cards out on the table. It's not like he doesn't know that he loves Cas and that it's mutual. Circumstances haven't always been great, and they haven't always handled the circumstances or their feelings well, but maybe it was time to actually say it...  
  
"Dean?" Cas interrupts his train of thought. "Are you okay?"  
  
"Do you know why Cain disappeared, stopped doing Hell's bidding?" he asks, looking down at his hands as he laces and unlaces his fingers, fidgeting.  
  
"No," Cas replies softly, turning toward Dean.

"He fell in love, of all things," Dean says with a short bark of laughter, a wry smile turning the corners of his mouth up. "In the 1800s, he fell in love with a human woman named Colette. He said that she knew who and what he was, but she loved and accepted him anyway...Unconditionally. They got married, moved onto an isolated farm, he stopped killing, and he left the Knights and Hell behind. Well, for a while." He takes a deep breath and continues, still not looking at Cas.  
  
"Abaddon and the rest of the Knights of Hell caught up to him, disguised as Army officers, and Colette let them in while Cain wasn't in the house. When he came back, he killed them all, except Abaddon. By that time, Abaddon had possessed Colette, and begged him to come back into the fold. He was going to kill her too, but he hesitated, since she was wearing Colette, and then she left Colette broken and twisted when she smoked out. Cain caught Colette, and held her as she died. She made him promise to stop killing. So, after she died, he threw the First Blade into the Pacific Ocean and has been a beekeeper living on isolated farms ever since. Well, 'til Crowley and I showed up, anyway."  He looks at Cas, trying to gauge his reaction. He sees the soft look Cas gives him sometimes, like he's the best thing ever to exist, and it makes him feel both better and worse, and he drops his gaze to his lap again.  "But he was already a demon by then, so...Yeah, not exactly my situation. Something else I didn't know until it was too late...He tried to kill himself, and the Mark brought him back as a demon. Wish I'd known that part of the story earlier, but I didn't want to hear anything other than whether or not it would let me kill Abaddon. I was so stupid, Cas. What if there's no way out of this? I can't stay human. I can't die without coming back a demon. What does that leave?"

 Cas is quiet for a moment, but he lays his hand between Dean's shoulders, rubbing soothing circles. "Dean, I think you and Cain may have more in common in your situations than you think, though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you don't see it. You do seem to need things spelled out at times. Dean, look at me, please." Dean looks up and turns to face Cas, who again lays a hand on his cheek. "I didn't fully understand what it was I felt for you, not for a very long time, not until recently, but I do now. I know now why I defied Heaven to help you, why I couldn't stand the thought of Raphael restarting the apocalypse, what broke Naomi's mind control in that crypt, why I wanted to lock Heaven's door so you'd never be bothered by my kind again, and why I gave up an entire army of angels for one man...I love you, Dean. There's nothing you can do that has or will ever change that."  
  
"Cas..." Dean's voice cracks, and tears well in his eyes. "You shouldn't...I'm not...I'm not good."  
  
"Yes, you are. The day I dragged you out of Hell, you had already begun your transition into a demon, but your soul still shone brighter than any other in the Pit, and you healed. Once you let go of the blade you had in your hand, the slightest touch of Grace and effort healed you. I expected it to be much more difficult. Even when you were a demon, going after your brother, there were still embers of that light in you. Even if there hadn't been, I still would have loved you." Cas is so sincere. Dean finds it hard to breathe, and the tears have escaped now to run down his face.  
  
"Love you, too, Cas, have for longer than I've been willing to admit, even when I thought I should hate you." He breaks eye contact. "But I don't know that this is the best thing for you. What if I get you killed?"  _Again_ , he thinks. At some point, God would stop bringing him back to life, right? He doesn't want to consider that day. With the Grace situation, it could come soon.  
  
"That is a risk everyone takes, even angels after a time," he replies. "And you could have been killed many times because of my mistakes."  
  
"So...Now that that's out there," Dean says, pulling back and rubbing his face as he stops crying. He takes a deep breath and sighs. "Do you think Sam knows?"  
  
"Given my relatively new-found knowledge of literature and film, some of the comments he's made recently and earlier today, and how long it's been since we left him cleaning the kitchen, I think so. At worst, he would have finished cleaning the kitchen by the end of that TV show we watched, and yet he has not joined us, which surely he would if he thought we were merely friends, and I doubt he minds. Sam is not your father, Dean. He just wants you to be happy. I am also beginning to think, after turning over some of his comments on the subject in my mind, that that play may have implied you and I were romantically involved in some way," Cas's eyes twinkle, teasing.

Dean chuckles. "You are becoming very perceptive. And, yeah, it implied it. It didn't come right out and say it, but it was definitely implied. Also, the two girls that played you and me were together in real life, and disgustingly happy."  
  
Cas is quiet, and looks away, thoughtful. "What if there is more than one way to feed the Mark?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Dean asks.  
  
"It's just...The civil rights leader Martin Luther King, Jr.--a prophet, by the way--said that hate could not drive out hate, that only love could do that. Maybe it's similar to how radiation and chemotherapy can shrink tumors and bring about remission in cancer patients. Maybe that's what Colette did for Cain, loving him and, in the process, dampening the effect of the Mark," Cas explained.

"Maybe..."  
  
"Of course, if it's going to work I will have to be with you more often," Cas says, leaning forward and staring at Dean's lips.  
  
"Oh, really?" Dean smiles and leans closer to Cas.  
  
"Yes. Do you think that would be acceptable?" Cas asks, a flash of vulnerability visible in his eyes.  
  
"Definitely," Dean says, putting his hand on the back of Cas's neck and guiding him into a kiss. It's slow and sweet, and carries the newness of long-held feelings finally put into words. Dean finally pulls back when he needs to breathe, flashing Cas a blinding smile, and then he notices they left the door partially open. "I think I should probably close the door, just in case someone decides to wander by. A little privacy would be nice, right?" He gets up and heads for the door.  
  
"I think that would be best," Cas replies, and winks at Dean. "You should probably lock it, too, you know, just in case."  
  
"Good idea," he replies, and does so.  
  
When Cas is buried inside him, kissing every inch of skin he can reach, calling him every term of endearment in several languages, including English and Enochian, Dean thinks he may be right. He wants to say so, but he can't scrape enough brain cells together to say anything remotely coherent except "yes," "don't stop," "more," "please," and "Cas." And after they're both sated and he's sleepy, their hands tangled together as he uses Cas's chest as a pillow, he feels calm, for the first time in a very long time. There isn't a ring of red around everything he sees, no burning in his arm, no taste of ash and sulfur on the back of his tongue. Their problems aren't gone, but he thinks finding a solution may be easier if he can think clearly, and about other things besides death and destruction. This is a start.  
  
When he wakes the next day, Cas is running his fingers through his hair, and it feels nice as he drifts, not bothering to open his eyes. As he becomes more aware, he realizes he managed to go a night without nightmares. The Mark really has quieted. He lays a kiss over Cas's heart and opens his eyes, rolling over and stretching.  
  
"Morning, Cas," he mumbles as he sits up, noticing Cas is holding a book in the hand he wasn't running through Dean's hair, low light spilling from the lamp on the nightstand.  
  
"It's half past noon," Cas replies, continuing to read for a moment before marking his place and setting the book on the nightstand. "I take it you slept well."  
  
"Yeah, actually, I did. No nightmares. I think you may be onto something." He scoots to the edge of the bed, looking for his slippers and robe. He needs coffee. After a bit of feeling around, he finds his slippers and steps into them, then, not finding his robe, checks the closet, snagging his discarded underwear on the way. Sure enough, someone had hung the robe in his closet. He slips into it, tying it securely. "I'm going to the kitchen to get some coffee. You want anything?"  
  
Cas has picked his book up again, and peers over the top. "I'll be along when I finish this paragraph," he replies.  
  
"Alright."  
  
Dean makes what he thinks is a short stop in the bathroom, then wanders lazily toward the kitchen. He smells the coffee before he gets there. When he pushes open the door, Sam is at the kitchen island making himself a turkey sandwich, piling on lettuce, tomato, avocado and he can't tell what other rabbit food, grinning like he's just heard the best inside joke ever, and then he sees Cas over by the coffee pot, which is only one quarter full, with the coffee still brewing, leaning casually against the counter, hair still a mess, wearing Dean's tee shirt from the day before and his own boxers. 

Sam looks up, and says, definitely amused, "I told you you wouldn't be up to make breakfast."   
  
"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, and when he sees Cas open his mouth he hastily adds, "You were right. _Star Trek_ 's so good I can't watch just one." He loves Cas, but sometimes he's really afraid of the embarrassment factor of what he might say.

He takes a couple steps closer to the coffee pot, but freezes. He knows he's caught, and he's not sure what to do. It's blatantly obvious what happened. Cas is sporting major bedhead and standing there in Dean's tee shirt and a pair of boxers, for God's sake, which, now that his brain has started working a bit, is really distracting...And hot. 

  
"Dean, I'm not an idiot, or deaf. If we weren't in a secret, underground bunker, I would say all of Lebanon would know you had a very happy birthday last night, and who, exactly, was making you so happy," Sam says, still grinning. Dean's sure he turns beet red, and Cas smiles and winks at Dean out of Sam's line of sight. "And, just so you know, I'm totally cool with it. I'm actually surprised it didn't happen sooner. P.S., after I eat, I'm going on a supply run for high-decibel earplugs and noise-cancelling headphones so I don't have to sleep in the gun range again. If there's anything you want me to pick up while I'm out, let me know." Sam slaps the top piece of bread on his sandwich, now spread with dijon mustard, puts his supplies back in the fridge, and goes to leave the room, but stops in the doorway. "Seriously, good for you two, and, Cas, you'd better be good to him. If you're going to start flitting off again, tell him and make plans to meet up. It makes him a lot easier to live with. And if you break him, I _will_ kill you."  
  
Sam doesn't wait for a reply, just leaves for the library, leaving Dean standing dumbstruck in the middle of the kitchen, opening and closing his mouth. He can't believe how anticlimactic it turned out, revealing his relationship with Cas, and, by extension, effectively coming out. Though he supposes Sam could think Cas is an exception. He's sure Sam will start that conversation the next time they're on a road trip, probably on some deserted stretch where there's nowhere to escape, knowing him.  
  
"I told you he knew," Cas says, pressing a cup of coffee into Dean's hands. "And that he would be fine with it. Am I correct in assuming the threat of death is something family members do in these situations?"  
  
"Yeah, Cas. It's an empty threat," he says and smiles, kissing Cas on the cheek. "So don't worry." He walks over to the refrigerator to see what they have to eat. "Did you have any plans for the rest of the day?" he asks over his shoulder.  
  
Cas walks up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on Dean's shoulder, and quietly says, "I was thinking that, when Sam leaves, we should probably feed the Mark. We should probably try to feed it at least once every day whenever possible."  
  
Dean swallows, and bites back a moan as he's instantly transported back to the previous night's activities. "I think that's probably a good idea, Cas," he replies.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, just as Dean finishes eating the last slice of his birthday pie, they hear the front door of the bunker open and close. Dean leaves the pie pan on the table, grabbing Cas by the hand and racing down the hall. Sam is definitely going to need those earplugs when he returns, he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's Note** : I know that the show has created a time problem around Dean's age, namely that a year is supposed to have passed between Seasons 5 and 6 (while Sam was in Hell, Cas was dealing with a war in Heaven and watching Dean rake leaves, and Dean was with Lisa) and between Seasons 7 and 8 (while Dean and Cas were in Purgatory and Sam was topside, spending a substantial portion of that year with Amelia). Despite these lapses, we still occasionally hear them cite the current year or current events on the show, so in this fic Dean is 36. To make up for the gaps, I am headcanoning that Seasons 4 and 5 take place in the same year and Seasons 8 and 9 take place in the same year, similar to how Seasons 3 and 4 of _The Vampire Diaries_ take place in Elena and co.'s senior year of high school.


End file.
